


Wanted

by jinkieswouldyoulookatthis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, GIEPP, Girl in Every Port
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinkieswouldyoulookatthis/pseuds/jinkieswouldyoulookatthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the Girl in Every Port project organized by the amazingly wonderful winchestersinthedrift and deansdirtylittlesecretsblog.</p><p>Prompt: Shooting range worker/trainer</p><p>Okay, so the story wandered a bit off target, but I like where it hit.  Only brief smut in passing (sorry!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanted

You stood up from your desk and stretched. Ugh, your eyes were starting to have a hard time focusing. Apparently, it was time to get some coffee and spend a few minutes away from your computer monitor. You strolled down to the break room and prepared the coffee maker to brew a fresh pot. Once you had it going you turned to the bulletin board and stared at the postings. There wasn't anything new since yesterday, when you had performed this same ritual, so you started flipping through some of the old sheets that were still pinned up under the more current ones. One, way near the back grabbed your attention.

Even in black and white and the completely unflattering lighting of a mug shot, there was no mistaking those eyes and lips, the perfect bone structure, or that smart-ass attitude. Seeing his picture made your breath catch. The fact that it was on an old FBI wanted bulletin made your heart race like you just sprinted a mile. "Dean Winchester" it read...and you wondered if that was his real name or just another pseudonym. You blinked and for the fraction of a second that your eyes were closed you felt the ghosting of strong, rough hands with nimble fingers between your legs. You took a shaky breath and ran a hand over your face. It had been ages since you had thought about that weekend and you found it surprising that the memories were still this strong.

It had only been a weekend...part of a weekend, actually, maybe 36 hours or so. But, whew, it had been so intense, so full of sex and laughter and eating and more sex, sex like you had previously only fantasized about, that it was hard to believe it had only lasted a day and a half. 

You heard someone clear their throat and glanced around. Parker had come in and was giving you a weird look. Why was she…? Oh, probably because you were standing there with the wanted bulletins flipped up, staring into space, blushing and grinning like an idiot. Dropping the grin and clearing your throat you hurriedly walked back to your desk. 

"Get a grip, Y/L/N!" You berated yourself as you sat down and positioned your chair. You were a police detective, you shouldn't turn into a giggly school girl because of thoughts of sex you had close to ten years ago. You flexed your shoulders and stretched your neck. Time to get some work done! After all, this paperwork wasn't going to fill itself out, no matter how hard you wished it would. You reached your hand out for something that should have been sitting just past your mouse but it closed over empty air. Staring at your hand in confusion, it took you a moment before you worked out what was wrong. Crap! You had forgotten to get a cup of coffee.

 

***

 

"James Dean?" Dolores asked skeptically, her New Jersey accent raspy from decades of smoking. She eyed the man who had just handed her his liability waiver form and cash for the range fee. He looked to be in his early twenties and was downright gorgeous. While he bore no physical resemblance to James Dean, he certainly gave off that kind of vibe. A leather jacket with the collar turned up, jeans that were tight in all the right places and worn leather work boots. His sandy hair gelled just enough to betray the fact that he actually cared about his appearance. 

"Dean James, actually. First name last and all that." Far from sounding upset, the young man seemed amused. From where you were standing, waiting your turn, you could just see the side of his face. He licked his bottom lip as he smiled at her. Was he flirting with Dolores? Not that she wasn't an attractive lady, but she was old enough to be his grandmother!

"You'd be surprised how many people fill these forms out wrong." Dolores muttered in her usual, dry way.

"Well, when you've got a first name for a last name it gets mixed up all the time. But as far as I'm concerned, Beautiful, you can call me whatever you want." and he gave her a flirty wink and smile.

You held your breath, waiting for her to lay into him the way you had seen her chastise other, older and much less charismatic men who had dared to flirt with her in the past. Here it comes, you thought and she...wait, were your eyes deceiving you, or was she blushing as she smiled back at him?

"Can I get you anything today? Extra ammo, targets? Or do you have everything you need?" Dolores leaned forward against the counter a little as she asked.

Patting his duffel bag, which she had already checked, he said, "I've got it all covered."

"I am sure you do." You weren't sure you had ever seen her smile that lasciviously. "Safety gear on and you can go back. Take whatever open bay strikes your fancy." 

As he turned away from the counter he noticed you waiting behind him. His mouth opened just a bit and his eyes widened. Holy crap, you thought, gorgeous didn’t quite seem adequate anymore! His eyes flicked from your mouth, down your body and back up to your eyes before his smile snapped back into place with a raise of his eyebrows and he turned to saunter towards the back, his duffle slung over his shoulder and putting plugs in his ears as he went.

Dolores was turned around on her stool, watching his hips as he walked down the hall and through the door at the far end. "Mm! There is just something about a bow-legged man. Reminds me of my second husband. Oh, the things he could do with those hips..." She stared at the closed door without really seeing it for a moment before clearing her throat and finally turning her attention to you. "What can I help you with, dearie?"

You laughed, awkwardly. "I need another box of rounds."

"Shot through yours already?"

"Yeah. I don't want Haskins to get a better score than me on Tuesday." She rang you up and you paid for the box.

"You're a crack shot, you're gonna blow 'em away." She looked at you and squinted her eyes. "Metaphorically, of course. Don't really shoot him. I know he’s a pain in the ass, but, it's not worth the paperwork, believe me." She gave you a knowing look, as if to say that she had been faced with that proverbial paperwork herself once. You knew Dolores pretty well, had been coming here regularly ever since you had decided you wanted to become a police officer, and you still couldn't always tell if she was being sarcastic or serious. After all, she was a feisty old lady with a long and storied past, perhaps she was serious? Nah! You just nodded and smiled as you put your ear plugs and muffs back on and took your box of rounds.

When you re-entered the shooting range you hesitated, James Dean was in the bay next to yours, setting out his stuff. 

 

***

 

You couldn't take it anymore. You had to know what he was wanted for. A few clicks and you had his sheet up on your monitor. 

"Let's see" ...suspected for mail and credit card fraud, breaking and entering, armed robbery, kidnapping, grave desecration... "What the Hell?" ...and multiple counts of first degree murder! "Dean?!?" 

This couldn't be right, you thought. No. That didn't sound possible. Okay, admittedly you never really knew that much about him, but you had always prided yourself on your ability to read people and he hadn't set off any warning bells with you. You would have been willing to bet serious money that he was one of the good guys. But this was the warrant record of a grade A psycho. The only consolation you could find was that he hadn’t been convicted of anything, but that might’ve only been because he had never actually been brought to trial.

You sat back in your chair, trying to remember everything you could about him while looking at news footage of him involved in a hostage situation at a bank in Milwaukee.

 

***

 

Stepping back up to your bay in the range you watched him through the glass partition as he pulled a pearl handled pistol out of his bag and set out a box of ammo for it. He had taken off his jacket and you could see broad shoulders and muscles as he rolled up the sleeves of the button-up he was wearing. Picking up his pistol again, his hands moved with well-practiced precision as he ejected and loaded the magazine. 

Looking down you concentrated on reloading your revolver. When you were ready you took aim at your target, breathed out and then squeezed the trigger, the recoil jarring your arms just as you knew it would. You could just make out the newest little hole in the paper target. Smiling at yourself you noted that it was right in the area you had been aiming for, the imaginary perp.'s right shoulder. While you were analyzing your shot, James Dean was zipping his target back along its track. You watched as it went 15 feet past yours before stopping.

Focusing back on your target, you took another shot which hit within two inches of your last. Then he shot, hitting his target just left of center chest...heart.

You aimed and shot, this time within an inch of the other two shots. He shot and the first hole got a little bigger. You raised your eyebrows and glanced at him. He smiled at you and his green eyes sparkling through the clear plastic of the safety glasses Dolores had insisted he wear. He then nodded towards your target. For the next twenty minutes, the two of you took turns firing and watching how the other was doing. 

When you were done for the day you started packing up. "You're pretty good." You looked up to see him leaning against the partition watching you.

You smiled and blush a little from his attention. "You too."

"Very non-lethal." He said, indicating how all your shots were to the shoulders of the target.

You shrugged, "Potentially stopping someone doesn't necessarily require killing them." You nodded at his target with its tight clusters of holes over the heart and brain. 

He just smirked. "Zombies only stop if you destroy their brains."

You pointed at the holes in the chest. "Let me guess? Zombie werewolves?" A huge grin spread across his face and you felt your knees go a little weak.

"Do you want to go get something to eat?"

 

By the time you sat down in a booth at the diner down the street you had formed a pretty solid opinion about him. He was cocky as shit, but you had to admit that it kind of worked for him. You guessed that if anyone had reason to be so self-assured, it was this guy. He was smart, funny, disarmingly charming and so very pretty…you know, in a rugged, manly sort of way. 

You two sat and ate and talked for a couple of hours. You both silently agreed to keep the conversation away from anything too personal, instead sticking to general interests like movies, music and food. The more you talked the more you found yourself liking him.

Finally, screwing up your courage, you asked the question that had been on the tip of your tongue since leaving the range, “Do you want to come back to my place for a bit?” Your cheeks felt like they were on fire but you kept your breathing steady and did your best to act casual.

His eyes had lit up and he nodded, “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

The rest of the weekend was somewhat of a blur. Just a series of delightful images and moments that made you feel all hot and bothered thinking about them again. There was an initial explosion of passion when you had first gotten to your apartment, followed by a slower, sweeter exploration of each other' bodies that lasted well into the night. You’d had no illusions that this was anything more than a casual, one-time thing. You hadn’t invited him to stay for the weekend and he hadn’t asked. He just sort of stayed and you were happy that he did.

 

***

 

Grave desecration - bodies exhumed, covered in salt, doused in lighter fluid or gasoline and burned. ...Salt?!

 

***

 

Strong arms circled your waist in the kitchen as you were making sandwiches in the middle of the night. His breath warmed the side of your neck as he nuzzled into your hair.

"God you smell good." His voice all deep and rumbly right in your ear, making your thighs quiver.

"I smell like sex and gun powder."

"Mmmhmm." He agreed with a growl, hugging you close and grinding his hips against your backside. 

"Again?" You laughed. "I thought you were hungry?"

"I am." His voice suddenly lowered and was serious when he said, "for you." And he started kissing down your neck, pushing the collar of your shirt aside. 

Letting go of the knife you had been using to make the sandwiches, you placed both of your hands flat on the countertop and pressed back into him, feeling him hard and throbbing against you. 

 

***

 

Strange satanic symbols sprayed painted on floors and ceilings of crime scenes. Blood and occasional victims left behind. Both Dean and his brother, Sam, had matching tattoos of pentacles surrounded by sun rays over their hearts. Dean hadn’t had any tattoos when you met him. God knows you would have seen them if he had.

 

***

 

The following afternoon found the two of you throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths while lounging across your sofa and watching Jaws on TV. He was just wearing his boxers and had his feet propped up on the coffee table while you were wearing a tee shirt and panties with your legs across his lap. A horrible throw on your part sent a piece of popcorn between your side and the back of the sofa. Dean scrambled to retrieve it, brushing his hand across your stomach and making you flinch. His eyes got wide and his mouth opened. A devilish grin slowly spread across his face. "You're ticklish!"

You shook your head vehemently as you answered, "No I'm not!" You squeaked, not sounding nearly as convincing as you had hoped to.

The green in his eyes shining brightly, "You aren't, huh? Well, I guess you won't mind me doing this then." And he dove both of his hands towards your belly, his fingers dancing over your shirt and around your sides.

You tried not to laugh, you really did. You managed to hold out for about three seconds, a personal record, before seizing up and starting to laugh. You tried to catch his hands but they seemed to be everywhere at once and he was just too quick. You tried to cover your middle, but then he found out that the backs of your knees were ticklish, and then your armpits. When he got to your feet you somehow managed to flip yourself off of the sofa and into the space between it and the coffee table. Obviously not satisfied that he had located all of your ticklish spots, he followed you down, shoving the coffee table to the side as he slid into it, all while continuing to tickle you. You were cackling like mad with occasional punctuations of "no" and "stop" thrown in for good measure. 

You weren't exactly sure when the onslaught turned from playful to lustful, all you knew was that his hands were suddenly exploring you in ways that caused you to moan instead of laugh and all thoughts of him stopping what he was doing were gone.

 

***

 

A woman that was tortured and killed, police arriving on the scene identified Dean fleeing the scene...

 

***

 

By the time he finally had to leave on Sunday, you had realized that the cockiness was mostly an act. Not that he had let the facade slip in front of you, not really. But a few times during the weekend he had seemed to actually relax and you caught a glimpse of something more to him. He harbored a deep and honest sense of caring and a desire to just be able to enjoy the little moments that made a life worth remembering. 

You were pretty sure that he hadn't given his real name, and the reasons behind that were a little troubling to you, but not enough to spoil the amazing time you'd had. He had left you his number with a cryptic instruction to call him if anything weird ever happened and then he was gone, driving away in that big old sexy car of his.

 

***

 

The FBI had reported that he and his brother died in a helicopter explosion/fire at a police station only to resurface a few years later robbing banks. There was a lot of video of them in the act and you were aghast. That was definitely Dean. And then, again, they were reported as being dead. The word “deceased” just sort of hung there on your screen, feeling like a lump in your gut. 

Deceased.

The whole thing felt really, really wrong, like you just found out that Santa actually ate little kids. 

Taking a deep breath, you locked your computer and shut off the monitor. Sitting back in your chair you rubbed your eyes. Trying to shake off the fog of memories and the mixed up emotions that they brought, you picked up your phone and sent a quick text. 

"omw home what's for dinner?"


End file.
